High Spirits at Harroweby (17 page)

Miss Snypish flew about her chamber, desperately arranging her toilette. The sight of Selinda’s empty bed had brought her heart to her throat and the image of Prudence’s wrathful expression to her mind’s terrified eye. She was not at all clear what she must do in order to recover the wretched girl, but, whatever it was, she was at least sensible to the fact that she could not accomplish it dressed only in her wrapper.

The distraught companion made herself decent in record time, tore down the staircase and out the front door where she ran bodily into a footman bearing a note. As he picked himself up off the walk, she could not help noticing that his livery identified him as belonging to Lord Waverly
’s house.

In spite of her normally staid demeanor.
, Miss Snypish was so relieved by the appearance of one unconnected with Harroweby House (and thus unlikely to inform her employers of her charge’s disappearance) who might possibly be able to assist her in her sudden need that she was unable to restrain the shrill whoop of elation that rose to her lips. Taking the startled Richard (for indeed it was he) firmly by the ear, she dragged him back the way she had come, slammed the door after her, and sat her victim down in a hooded chair. There she stood before him, effectively blocking any path of escape, her eyes glittering with ominous desperation.

“
Well?” she demanded at last, holding her hand out for the note.

Richard, with such courage as would have astonished his most recent employer, cleared his throat and, holding aside the message he had intercepted, begged leave to have some speech with the master or mistress of the house. This request Miss Snypish ignored with a disdainful snort, and, kicking the poor fellow soundly in the shin, she caused him to let go his prize as he gasped and clutched both hands to his now-throbbing leg. The companion, who during the early days of her current post had been assigned the duties of governess as well, at once recognized Lucy
’s round hand as the letter fluttered to the ground. With a gasp, she snatched it up and, with neither permission nor ceremony, immediately began to peruse it.

Through his pain, Richard watched with fascination as the woman
’s face grew quite gray beneath her paint.
“Do you know the direction of the Marquess of Bastion?” she managed at last.

“
Naturally,” Richard sneered. “The marquess is the first cousin of—”

“
Then you shall come with me,” she informed him, fixing him with an icy stare which made his knees suddenly weak with trepidation. “Come, sirrah. We shall summon a hackney at once.”

Half an hour later, the Marquess of Bastion
’s similarly intimidated valet was hastily assisting his master in a rushed toilette. From the servant’s stuttering description, Bastion had no doubt that his caller was the inestimable Miss Snypish, but he had not the least idea what had prompted her to make such an untoward call. If nothing else, however, he had come to value that woman’s good sense so like his own, and decided that she must have an unusually good motive.

When at last he joined her in his parlor, he was exceedingly surprised to see her accompanied by Richard, his cousin
’s footman. What in the devil was going on here? he wondered. Before he could inquire, however. Miss Snypish wordlessly handed him Lucy’s note. When he at last looked up at her, she managed to say with tight control, “As you can see, my lord, we have been scandalously used.”

It was unfortunate that the marquess was not so swift a thinker as she and it was several moments before the situation as she had deduced it, confirmed halfheartedly by the terrified Richard, could be explained to his satisfaction. When the import of the message at last struck him, Bastion was torn between a smug elation in learning that his cousin had done something so despicable as to elope with a defenseless heiress and anger that his own similar plans had been thwarted.

“I think I shall have a brandy,” he said at last.

“
I think you shall do no such thing,” Miss Snypish told him sharply. “We must pursue them at once!”

The marquess frowned.
“Pursue them in what? I have a high-perch phaeton, but—”

“
Then, sir, a high-perch phaeton it must be,” Miss Snypish cut him off, “for I shall not have the fortunes of some blighted while others prosper with impunity. Now let us be off.”

“
So you mean us to head for this Laughing Lion?” the marquess ventured.

Miss Snypish sighed heavily and swallowed the crushing epithet that rose so easily to her lips. In fact, had not the weakness of his chin prompted such tender ardor in her bosom, she might well have boxed his ears.
“No, no,” she said evenly at last. “Lord Waverly and Lady Selinda know nothing of The Laughing Lion, do they?
We
have Lucy’s little note, after all. We shall, of
course,
head for Darrowdean and intercept the pair.”

“
And then?” the marquess persisted blankly.

“
I shall tell you when we get there,” Miss Snypish returned, sinking inwardly as she realized she had not the least idea.

* * * *

Lucy awoke to a brilliant blue day after a night of singularly pleasant dreams. Indeed, her nocturnal visions of ices at Gunter’s and entertainments at Astley’s Amphitheatre were so peopled with handsome young boys that she was forced to look at the spirit of her frolicsome great-great grand-mama quite narrowly. She would have taxed the ghost with her rising suspicions had not Mrs. Bunche just then entered the chamber singing a country song in cheerful if inaccurate tones.

“
So you survived the night, my poor little dove,” Mrs. Bunche crooned. “And how are we feeling, pet?”

“
Quite well, thank you,” Lucy told her, smiling her crooked smile. “Whatever time is it? I feel it must be quite sinfully late.”

“
It is well past midday, but never mind the time, sweeting. Just tell me true—can it be you’ve no grippe? No ague? No putrification of the lung?”

‘
‘Indeed, I do not think so!” the child exclaimed, her eyes wide.

Unconvinced, Mrs. Bunche felt Lucy
’s forehead and, pronouncing it to be as cool as a root cellar wall, commenced to worry that Lucy had been chilled so thoroughly as to defy the ability to take a fever. It took some minutes for Lucy to persuade the good soul that she felt extremely tolerable.

Still, Mrs. Bunche frowned at her and exclaimed that she could not like the worry line that was beginning to form between the child
’s eyes.

“
Not that I blame you, my turtle dove, for—I vow!—to be tormented with the likes of those two devilish fiends as followed you here last night would set a corn-fed sow to worriting itself.”

At the mention of this pair, Lucy did indeed begin to fret herself, particularly when
the proprietress informed her of the lodgings her supposed relations had suffered during the night. This revelation conjured up such a comical picture, however, that Lucy did indulge in a brief laugh, especially as she was able to see Lady Sybil convulse in mirth and throw her spectral arms around Mrs. Bunche’s neck. Lucy soon recovered herself, however. “To be sure, they deserve no better, for they are the most shocking creatures imaginable, Mrs. Bunche,” Lucy confided with a little tremble. “I cannot but dread that such a reception will only make them behave worse toward me than they have already done.”

“
Have no fear of that, my sweeting,” the good lady said, tweaking her under the chin rather painfully. “The groom awoke this morning to find two of my horses gone, and I have sent the magistrate and his deputies after them. You may rest your head and drink your chocolate in peace, lovey, if that sorry snail of a kitchen maid will but bring it up. What’s more, if no decent soul claims you for kin, I shall keep you myself!”

Lucy was just raising her eyebrows at this thought when the door was opened by a slight chambermaid bearing a tray so heavily laden with victuals that she proceeded into the room slightly alist.

“So there you are at last, Mopsa,” Mrs. Bunche grumbled in exasperated tones. “I do not know when I have seen such a sorry slowcoach!”

The said Mopsa teetered precariously toward the fireside table and set down her burden with a resounding thud before answering her mistress.
“But Mrs. Bunche,” she squeaked excitedly, bobbing a hasty curtsey, “there is such news! I’m sure you must forgive me when I tell you, for there is the hugest uproar down t’village as ever I saw, no nor me mum neither.”

“
What?” Mrs. Bunche snorted disdainfully. “Have the tinkers passed through town again?”

“
No, nor gypsies either, though I dearly love a gypsy!” the girl burbled with excitement. “And you will recall, I know, that black-eyed devil who would have carried me off to have his foul way with me, but that I told him I’d never have him. Yes, gypsies—”

“
Enough of gypsies, girl,” Mrs. Bunche cried. “I vow you will drive me cockeyed with your nonsense! Now what is this uproar you speak of?”

“
Uproar! You do well to call it so, Mrs. Bunche! You will not credit it, but there’s two foul criminals locked in the stocks, and they are using such sorry language as would make the devil himself blush.”

“
Is that all, ninny?” the older woman scolded. “Why, those stocks haven’t a moment to grow cool between victims, we live in such sorry times. Now, Mopsa, you go right now and—”

“
Oh, but that ain’t the halt of it, Mrs. Bunche,” the girl continued breathlessly, fanning herself with the bottom of her apron, “for one were a great fat lady and she riding a horse through town chasing hot as you please after a fat man ...”

“
My horses!” Mrs. Bunche exclaimed.

“
. . . who was yelping like anything for she kept smacking at him with a crop ...”

“
Great heavens!” Lucy chimed in.

“
... and she were all but mother-naked for he had stolen her gown ...”

“
Lord-a-mercy!” Mrs. Bunche cried.

“
... and soon enough she smacked his horse and it reared and whinnied so that it frightened
her
horse who reared, too, and straightaway didn’t they both end face down, arse up in a mucky ditch . . .”

“
Hoorah!” shouted Lucy.

“
. . . where the magistrate found them slinging mud and curses and—bless him—had them both clapped in irons and taken to the stocks! What’s more, they shall be locked in the gaol at sundown.”

At the end of this remarkable speech, Mopsa curtseyed once again and began laying out Lucy
’s nuncheon as if nothing untoward had happened at all. Mrs. Bunche, not one to miss out on excitement of this order, exited the chamber immediately, and soon enough Lucy could hear her calling loudly for her gig to be brought round. When Mopsa had completed her task and bobbed her way out, Lucy sprang from the bed, pulled off the huge nightrail with which Mrs. Bunche had supplied her on the previous night and began to dress herself.

“
Whatever do you make of this business, Lady Sybil?” she asked as she wiggled into her chemise.

The ghost, who had been peering out the window to see if the village were at all visible from their vantage
point, turned and smiled triumphantly. “I believe that fate has at last taken a hand in your difficulties, Lucy. I trust you may now sit quiet until Lord Waverly or his agent arrives, for I am sure it will be sometime today.”

Lucy frowned and fingered the gold pomander she wore around her neck. By daylight it was clear that it had received a fair battering on the floor of the coach the night before, for several of the pearls were missing and the catch was bent. At least, however, it had not lost the facility of keeping Lady Sybil by her side. Sitting quietly and waiting for events to shape themselves was not at all what she had been used to lately. But in spite of her reassurances to Mrs. Bunche, she had to admit that she did feel somewhat fagged, even after a good night
’s sleep. Perhaps a quiet day was in order, after all. Yawning, she crossed to the window and stood beside the ghost. The sun was now well past its summit and the inn yard was quite busy. Boys ran after chicken, two mud-specked horses were being led toward the barn even as Mrs. Bunche in her gig drove out, and milkmaids chatted companionably in the shade of a golden oak. In the distance, Lucy could see a vehicle approaching the inn accompanied by an outrider. There was something about the party that attracted Lucy’s attention, and suddenly she felt a strange buzz course through her. Even though the vehicle and rider were little more than dots on the horizon, she knew with an uncanny uncertainty that Lord Waverly had come at last.

* * * *

. . . Rosamonde at last looked into the depths of Roderick’s eyes,
Selinda was reading,
and recognized in them a mirror of her own overriding love and passion. The sun was just rising over the misty reaches of Larksdown Moor, and the song of the waking birds echoed at last in her heart.

“
The depths of our love cannot be sounded,” Roderick whispered in awed tones, “nor the brilliance of our devotion sullied. Say you will be my wife …